Love in the time of laundry

Dear Cupid:

I've been out of touch for a while. I used to imagine you, worship you, and cry my eyes out for you every day. But that was before you left for the last time.

I've learned a lot about myself since you've been gone. I admit I've changed. I learned, for instance, that there is a time and season for everything. There's a time for flirting with that cute waiter at the breakfast place even though he's 10 years younger, doesn't own a car, needs to borrow money and he'll pay you back this time for sure. A time for composing all-night sonnets to the old high-school heartthrob who doesn't realize he's just using you to get over his divorce. There is a time for booking a first-class ticket to spend a romantic weekend, at your own expense, with the handsome stranger who will one day soon drive down from Denver, move into your house, barely ever get out of bed, never get another job, and tell you everything that's wrong with you and your life before he moves out again.

Then there's a time to sort the whites from the colors.

I've learned, too, that men are from Mars and women are from Venus. That Mars can be light-years away from clearing the dinner dishes from the table, putting the shoes in the closet, and making the coffee in the morning, but that Mars is nearly always inches away from a flat screen.

The washer and dryer are on Venus.

I've seen and felt my share of love. In some ways, I consider myself an expert. I've seen a man's face tremble in awe and, yes, fear, as I walked down an aisle toward him. I've seen a man weep at the sight of his baby girl. I've seen the walls quake and the floor tilt with the immensity of our anger, then fall instantly still with an apology. I've seen an entire home built and rebuilt on love alone, sometimes in a single day.

I've seen the washer overflow and the fuse short out.

Love comes into my life everyday now, Cupid. It comes in denim, khaki, in cotton underwear, in hand wash, machine wash and rarely, rarely in dry clean only. It comes in dainty piles of pink and purple, and massive stacks of towels and sheets. Love comes by the basketful in my house, Cupid, but it doesn't come from you. It never did.

Dear Cupid: I'm into my third load today, but I'm just not that into you.

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Inspired just in time for Happy Valentine's and another lovely group writing project at Between the Lines.